


Hands of Sun and Rain

by ShinySherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Retirementlock, Weddings, but no longer alive, does not contradict series 3, in my opinion anyway, mary as good mother and wife and friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After too many goodbyes, John goes to live with Sherlock by the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands of Sun and Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/gifts).



> Written for the summerlock exchange for tiltedsyllogism, whose prompt was, "ok, future best friend, hit me with some retirement!lock, in which John and Sherlock have been through the wringer (both individually and together) but have made it to Sussex together. either gen or slash is great. S3-compliant would be appealing, but I leave it to you." Hope this fits the bill. <3

It’s sunny, but cold, and they stand on the stoop of the little house next to the overgrown roses. She kisses him on the cheek again, and he nods.

“It’s not _that_ far, Dad.”

“It’s bloody _California_.”

“There's this thing called the internet--”

He gives a glare for that, but then they’re both smiling, and her smile is so much like her mother’s that he nearly tears up again for different reasons, layers of reasons.

He doesn’t mean to get into it, but the words fall out in a rush. “Your mother would have been so incredibly proud of you, love, just as I am. So happy for you.”

His daughter’s countenance threatens to crumple, and, God, if she starts crying, he won’t be able to stop himself. But she is a Watson, after all, and in a breath she’s got herself under control. “I’m so happy for _you_ ,” she says with a glance around them. “This place is amazing.”

His lips press together in a closed smile and his hand reaches up to slide over her light brown hair, over the streak of alarmingly bright pink. Fingers remember downy fuzz, post-swim tangles, plaits thick as rope.

She catches his hand in her own and he is momentarily stunned that her fingers, once so small they could barely curl around the width of one of his own, now nearly encircle his wrist.

“ _You’re_ amazing,” he says in a gasp, and his eyes fill with tears.

* * *

Sherlock is the one with the cane now, a permanent reminder of the accident. As if any of them needed physical reminders. Five years later, John’s used to it. Somehow, it becomes Sherlock--probably because he has used it nearly as often as a weapon or a tool for emotional manipulation as an assistive device. Right now he’s using it to help him navigate the steep steps down the cliffside.

“I’m going to build a rail along those steps,” John says, glowering at the stairs.

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock sits next to John on the faded bench and they stare out at grey-blue sea.

“I’m not doing it for you,” John lies. “I didn’t move down here just to fall to my death while trying to carry my tea and paper down here for a nap.”

Sherlock purses his lips and his eyes crinkle up in amusement. “John. You’re sixty-two, not eighty-two.”

“All the more reason to build it now. We’re not getting any younger.” John pauses. “None of us.”

It’s two months since Maddie left, and John’s mood matches the cold, grey day. Sherlock runs through the last five years, the separations John has endured, a tally of goodbyes. One to Mary--an abrupt full stop, no real goodbye possible. Another to Sherlock upon his decision to retire, to move--an angry, resentful “piss off.” To London, a love letter, when John was finally ready to go. And now another to Maddie, leaving for her postgraduate work--a slow release, full of hope and pride and love, leaving her father’s well-worn heart in Sherlock’s care.

Sherlock slides his arm through John’s, resting his hand on John’s forearm. John lets him.

“She’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“She’s the best of you and Mary, and herself, besides. She’s at her mother’s alma mater, making her chemist-uncle look like an amateur.” Sherlock squeezes John’s arm almost involuntarily, and wonders when he became so reassuring. It’s no great mystery, in the end. He and John shift, bend, meld.

Sherlock watches him. “She’s happy.”

John nods the slightest nod and stares out at the sea. After a while, he sniffs. Lifts his chin.

Hands shift, and Sherlock feels cool fingers come to slide between his own.

* * *

John makes peace with the bees the same way he does with everything else--with a mixture of stubbornness and blind perseverance that so many others have mistaken for bravery and patience.

Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, notebook open, when John comes in and sinks into the matching chair with a creak, setting the jar of honeycomb on the table before Sherlock with a thud. Looking up, Sherlock notes the tiny war-wounds on John’s hand, sees the triumph in John’s gaze before John nods once and pushes up from the chair to rummage for tweezers, ice.

He hears the quiet grumbles as John plucks out stingers, and smiles, lifting the jar to the sunshine to watch the amber liquid shift, calm and unhurried, to the bottom of the glass.

* * *

When it happens, it’s smooth, easy--old scotch, honeyed tea. John brings the thermal carafe and the big blanket and settles in next to Sherlock on the grass amid the hives.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Says the man sitting in the middle of a field at midnight.” John snuggles closer and tucks the blanket around them more tightly.

“There’s no reason for both of us--”

“Just drink your tea,” John orders, loosening the lid and handing over the carafe. “Your transport could use some heat.”

“I don’t need the tea--you’re a human furnace,” Sherlock says, but takes it anyway.

“Hush. I’m going to nap whilst you sit out here and ponder . . . whatever it is you’re pondering.”

Sherlock takes a long sip and swallows. “I’m not pondering, I’m observing. The juveniles’ nocturnal behavior has rarely been documented.”

“‘Nocturnal’--hang on, are you watching bees _sleep_?”

Sherlock is quiet, and John shakes his head.

“Nevermind. I’m going to demonstrate some nocturnal behavior myself,” John answers, intending to tuck his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and doze, but Sherlock’s shoulders are bouncing and then he’s letting out a weird bark and John realizes: Sherlock’s giggling.

“Is that so?” Sherlock manages to make it sound suggestive in between gasps for air.

John rolls his eyes in protest. “I didn’t mean--”

This only leads to outright chortles on Sherlock’s part. John shoves, but Sherlock’s ready and pulls John over him. They fall back together in a heap, knocking over the carafe as they wrestle, elbows and knees everywhere until they’re both rolling and half-tangled in the blanket which is now sodden from spilt tea and damp grass.

Sherlock maneuvers himself above John, half up on his elbows and still giggling, and John pushes at him. Sherlock pushes back, but John easily flips Sherlock onto his back and pins him to the grass. John’s body lies firm and strong along Sherlock’s, his hands grasping Sherlock’s wrists, their breath mingling in the cold air between them. Relaxing his hold, John settles against Sherlock with a smile.

“You let me win,” John says, cocking his head, lips so close now.

Voice soft and pitched low, Sherlock answers. “I wonder why.”

Sherlock’s eyes are half-hooded, dark, and John watches as they dip to focus on John’s mouth, raise to meet his own gaze. John becomes aware of everything at once--hands, head, heart--and Sherlock’s body beneath him, vibrating under John like a violin under the pull of the bow.

John lifts a hand, glides fingers over cheek, jaw, throat.

Sherlock lifts his chin and hums.

They wake the bees.

* * *

The day is slow, heavy rain turning the world outside the windows dark and dull. Sherlock sits and stares into the nothing. Mentally paces. Retraces his steps.

Sherlock’s fingers tap the handle of the cane, and John knows where this is going.

“There was nothing you could have done differently,” John says.

Sherlock stares out the window at nothing. At the past.

“She thought Maddie was in the water--we all did.”

A minute tilt of the head, the slightest acknowledgement. John comes closer and sets down his tea, letting his hands rest on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“It was chaos. Rainy. Dark. You were hurt. Mary didn’t know that Maddie and I had made it out of the car to the shore already. It’s a miracle we didn’t all die that night.”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, John moves one hand down across Sherlock’s chest, slides the other up into inky curls shot through with white. Sherlock still says nothing, but he does reach up, covering John’s smaller hand with his own for a moment, pressing it against his chest.

John wants to say more, wants to take Sherlock to bed and heal him, both of them, with touches and whispers. But not yet. Sherlock will find him when he’s ready.

Sherlock’s fingers drop away and John leaves him staring at the rain.

* * *

John fixes the last piece of the banister into place, the power drill whirring amid the sound of the waves, the birds, the violin. The scents of grass and freshly cut lumber surround him.

Their first full summer in the little house, and the sun shines brightly today, warming his skin. He has long since stripped down to just his vest and jeans, and wipes the sweat from his face with his discarded shirt. Nodding approval at his finished work, John sets the dirty shirt in the tool box, closing it up.

He hears that Sherlock has stopped playing, and he climbs the last few steps to reach the top of the cliff. Struck again _forever_ by the sight of Sherlock, tall and stoic, untamable curls ruffling in the sea breeze, John comes up behind him, slides an arm around his belly.

Sherlock turns in his embrace. “Well. There’s that done, then.” He leans in for a kiss, and John obliges. “What will you do with your time now?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” John says, letting his fingers play over the places Sherlock likes best. “You’re very clever.”

“And you,” Sherlock says, pulling in a sharp breath, “have very talented hands.”

John’s smile is consumed by kisses.

* * *

The second summer is all flowers and news and decisions, and John feels the little house brimming, bursting.

He fiddles with his bow tie again. “She is too young to get married.”

Sherlock bats away John’s hands and unties the thing, starting over. “And we were too old.”

“That’s different,” John insists, but he knows it’s a weak argument. Sherlock ignores it and instead focuses on the tie, finishing with a little flourish of his fingers.

“There.” Sherlock takes a step back, gives John a small smile. “Ready to give her away?”

John’s heart constricts, and his eyes, suddenly hot, begin to tear. “No,” he says on an exhale, and feels like the floor is giving way beneath him. But Sherlock is there, quick and steady, one long arm already folding around John’s shoulders.

John’s left hand clenches and unclenches at his side. “I’m being ridiculous,” he says with a violent sniff.

“You’re being a father,” Sherlock replies. John feels Sherlock’s hand slide over his own, the long, warm fingers caging the bittersweet ghosts that tremor through him--happiness and sadness, beginnings and endings, loss and gain. He turns towards Sherlock, the inconstant constant of his life.

He wants to say it, but fears any further declaration of emotions might lead to actual weeping, and out in the garden there is a wedding to be getting on with. Instead, John looks up, meeting Sherlock’s warm gaze, and raises his right hand to interlock fingers with Sherlock’s left, feeling soft skin punctuated by rough calluses, knobby knuckles leading to the smooth metal of the ring that matches his own.

John straightens his spine. Clears his throat.

Sherlock opens the door and they step out into sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to my dear Armada for beta-help. I heart her so much. :)  
> Thank you for reading! Comments always appreciated. <3  
> (And if you're looking for more to read, I made a [fic index](http://shinysherlock.tumblr.com/post/105509221665) of my stuff by category which I hope is helpful.)


End file.
